Someone’s Watching

Henry Porter, photographed near his home in the Cotswold Hills. Photograph by Emma Hardy.

The Dying Light, Henry Porter’s new novel, begins straightforwardly enough: a coroner’s inquest convenes in the Welsh Marches to confirm the death of one David Eyam, an adviser to prime ministers but now retired—quietly eased from power for obscure reasons of state. A video is shown, the serendipitous record of a tourist’s camera: a bustling square in Cartagena, a vacationing Eyam at an outdoor café, a terrorist bomb attack, and poof!—good-bye, David Eyam. Case closed.

But, of course, case not closed at all. A cascade of deception leads ultimately to a government program with the Orwellian name Deep Truth. (“The British public hasn’t got the slightest idea how far Deep Truth has penetrated each life or what power it gives the government,” one character explains.) Big business is the enabler, national security the excuse. Imagine a unified field theory of surveillance and what might be done with such a system by unscrupulous ministers. Or, maybe worse, what the system might do all by itself.

Porter (Brandenburg, Remembrance Day), the Observer columnist and V.F.’s London editor, has battled for years against the insidious creep of government snooping. If you worry about too large a dollop of didacticism, fear not: The Dying Light is a thriller, and Porter is a stylist who enjoys a bit of theatrical flourish. (Why merely exit a room when you can leave “with an opaque Mandarin nod”?) You’ll find yourself imagining the movie it would make—North by Northwest meets House of Cards. Still, the message is clear, and persuasive. Porter claims that the novel is set in the near future. Don’t be fooled.